


Peaches, Almonds, and Cranberries

by rationalbookworm



Series: Lost And Found [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Kindle Prompt, Lost And Found Series, Lost Love, Prompt Fill, Sad!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:24:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2586380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rationalbookworm/pseuds/rationalbookworm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock becomes depressed. John calls in help to find out why, but not everything is as it seems...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peach Tea

A tall pink tin can stood on the top shelf in the cupboard that usually housed cups, saucers, plates, bowls, and other kitchenware but occasionally contained a few small body parts like fingers and toes that Sherlock insisted was for one experiment or other. That being said John was always curious yet decidedly cautious about what the tin's contents could be. Especially considering Sherlock’s warning when he first moved in.

"Don't ever touch that tin."

That was all. Five words were all John ever heard about the bloody tin can. And he never asked about it either. Sherlock had never sounded more serious than when he warned not to touch it. John couldn't bring himself to question that even if his curiosity was on the verge of bursting.

It wasn't until later, after about six months living together, when John had finally gotten used to Sherlock’s oddities, that John found out what exactly was hidden in the pink tin.

In hindsight it started about a week before March fifteenth. All week Sherlock grew quieter and quieter, drawing into himself and blocking out everyone else. At first John merely wrote it off as one of the younger man's odd moods, but then he noticed how sad he seemed to be growing. It was a terrible shock when the typically apathetic man came out of his room one Wednesday afternoon in his dressing gown, his cheeks clearly tearstained. He completely ignored john's questions and excepted a cup of tea numbly, not bothering to drink it as it steadily became stone cold on the coffee table before him. He sat staring blankly ahead of him for forty five minutes before rising and silently retreating back to his room. Worried, John had followed, only to freeze outside the locked door, listening to his friend's muffled sobs coming from within.

When Sherlock refused to come out of the room the next morning, John decided to take matters into his own hands. This wasn't Sherlock’s normal behavior (as far as he knew) and he was at his wits end trying to figure out what to do. So he did the only thing he could think of.

He phoned Mycroft.

Well technically he phoned A, but that was beside the point. A connected him to Mycroft, sounding almost as if she'd been expecting his call. After John rambled through an explanation for calling, the "British government" sighed, said he'd handle it, and suggested John go enjoy his date that evening and get his mind off Sherlock. It wasn't until after he hung up that John realized he'd never told the eldest Holmes about his date.

When he returned home late that evening, he found Mycroft and Sherlock sitting in front of the fireplace both nursing a cup of tea. Sherlock still looked utterly depressed and very pale, but at least this time he was sipping his drink. Neither man said a word as John moved quietly to the kitchen. The smell of peaches was strong throughout the flat, strongest in the kitchen and he wandered in there to discover why. It wasn't every day that they had the sweet smell in the house. Never, more like. Sherlock despised peaches, though he refused to explain why.

There, sitting innocently on the counter next to the kettle was the pink tin. The lid lay next to it as if someone had just finished going through the contents. John felt his curiosity bubbling over as he momentarily forgot his distraught flat mate. Moving toward the kettle with the excuse of making himself tea, John peered inside and immediately felt disappointment shoot through his body.

Tea. That was the big mystery. Tea. What was so special about that? Breathing deeply, he found that the peach scent was coming inside the tin. Peach tea then. Still didn't explain Sherlock’s fierce attachment to it or why he was only drinking it now when normally he simply drank whatever John handed to him. And once again, he hated peaches, so what drove him to drinking something he couldn’t enjoy?

Voices murmuring quietly in the other room snapped him out of his internal rant. Quickly he put together his own cup of tea (non-peach of course) and went out to the living room to see Sherlock leaning back in his chair, head tilted up so he could gaze mindlessly at the ceiling, and Mycroft, rising from his chair.

“Try not to be a nuisance to the good doctor, Sherlock,” Mycroft said before turning and waving John into the hall, who set his cup down near his chair before joining the other man on the stairs. A was waiting by the front door, head bowed over her mobile as her thumbs flashed over the keypad.

“Her name was Caitlyn,” Mycroft said bluntly.

John’s brow wrinkled in confusion, “I’m sorry?”

“Come now, doctor. Keep up,” Mycroft sighed, glancing down at his shoes as he tapped his umbrella on the floor absently. “When he was a teenager, Sherlock was very close to a family friend of the same age. Her name was Caitlyn. Katie, he called her. She never allowed anyone else to call her that.”

John blinked dumbly at the other man, “Why do I get the feeling they were more than just friends?”

Mycroft didn’t say anything, merely tilted his head slightly in what John decided was a nod.

“What happened?”

He hesitated before continuing in a much more subdued voice, “She disappeared. A few months before she could finish school and follow Sherlock to University, she vanished. Not even I can find her.”

John couldn’t help but notice he said can, not could. He was still looking.

“It devastated him,” Mycroft turned slightly to look through the open door toward where his brother still sat, not having moved a muscle. “Still does. That’s why he gets this way a couple times a year. Her birthday, their anniversary, holidays, things like that. Luckily last holiday season you two were busy with those cases and he didn’t have time to allow it to set in like it has now.”

“March fifteenth is her birthday?” John asked quietly, hoping Sherlock hadn’t overheard their conversation. That definitely wouldn’t help matters.

“No,” Mycroft sighed sadly again, “May seventh is her birthday. She disappeared on March fifteenth.”

John didn’t know what to say to that.

Mycroft turned, lifting his umbrella onto his shoulder as he sauntered down a few steps, “Quite ironic, really.”

“Why’s that?”

He turned to smirk up at John, “She used to love Shakespeare. ‘Beware the ides of March’.”

John snorted humorlessly. Another thought crossed his mind as Mycroft joined A.

“And the tea?” John called after him. “It was hers, wasn’t it?”

He nodded, “She moved here from America when she was very young. Georgia to be exact. Her grandparents owned a peach tree orchard there. It was hard for her to adjust at first. She absolutely loathed tea. Mother was the one to find the peach tea and give it to her. It quickly became the only tea she would ever drink simply because it reminded her of home.”

And with that last thought, Mycroft bid him goodbye and disappeared out the door with A trailing behind him.

John turned back to the living room without entering. Sherlock still sat in the same position, looking more melancholy than any man had a right to be. John felt like he hardly knew the man at all. For a long time now he had come to the conclusion that the brilliant consulting detective was simply asexual. Not to mention he had claimed to be married to his work to begin with. Now John had new ideas. The man was simply too heartbroken, too hung up on his lost (literally) first love, that he couldn’t even see other women. She must have been quite the woman to continuously have Sherlock Holmes pining after her.

John stepped forward and took up Sherlock’s now empty mug, returning from the kitchen with it soon after, filled to the brim with steaming peach flavored tea. Sherlock looked up at him with lost, sad eyes and forced a small smile before cradling the cup in his hands as though he held a precious gem. John didn’t say anything in comfort, didn’t try to get the younger man to open up. None of that would help anyway. Instead he sat down with his own tea, opened up a novel he’d been reading the night before, and enjoyed the momentarily peace in 221B Baker street, however despondent it may be.


	2. The Almond Tree

In the middle of nowhere Georgia, surrounded by field after field of peach trees and where houses are few and far between, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson wandered down a winding dirt road with the setting hot July sun beating down on them. How they got there isn't entirely important for this story. All John knew was one day Sherlock announced that an old acquaintance had contacted him, begging for help on a serial homicide in rural Georgia and the next thing John knew they were on a plane to America.

Now John wasn't stupid. After the whole Peach Tea incident in March, he had learned the signs of Sherlock's depressive moods. The closer they got to the fourth of July, the more withdrawn Sherlock became. The fact that this case turned up, taking them to _her_ home town just in time for America's Independence Day, was a little too much of a coincidence. John worried that the younger man would become inconsolable while there and, God forbid, might slip back into his drug habit. (Something also told John that the habit had originated from Caitlyn's disappearance; what else could have drove him that close to the brink?)

It turned out he didn't need to worry so much. Except for a few low points when he was clearly caught in some memory, Sherlock seemed happily intent on finding the killer. Which he did on July fourth, two hours before the fireworks were scheduled to begin, the sun lazily sinking below the tree line.

After guiding the police to the spot where the killer was hiding away in a little shack in the middle of a field, Sherlock had led John away, seemingly knowing where he was headed though naturally he refused to share this information with his flatmate.

John quietly followed the taller man as he turned onto yet another dirt road when a thought suddenly occurred to him. What if Sherlock actually had no idea where they were headed? The man was usually a well of information, but this trip, no matter how much he tried to hide it, had taken its toll on Sherlock. John would have been surprised if it hadn’t. No man in Sherlock’s position would have been able to go through his lost love’s hometown without some sort of emotional distress. Even Sherlock Holmes.

He was contemplating breaking into Sherlock’s reverie to ask where they were when the dirt road suddenly dumped out onto a paved main highway. The street was completely deserted except for a large pickup truck pulling into the dimly lit, half full, car park across the street. As they drew closer, John noticed a small brown building with a green thatched roof standing in a pool of light from the lamps in the lot half hidden amongst more trees. Most were the peach trees they’d been walking through for the past half hour, but a couple were clearly different. It wasn’t until they were across the car park that John could see they were almond trees. Quite fitting as the large faded sign above the door claimed the building to be called _The Almond Tree_.

Sherlock led the way inside, music and laughter immediately assaulting their ears as they slipped through the semi-large crowd to the back bar area. It wasn’t until they were seated on old wooden stools, waiting for the bartender to finish serving a couple at the end of the bar, that John was able to really get a good look at the place.

It was small, intimate, with several large tables scattered around for diners, all set up with a diminutive vase holding a single (mostly wilting) flower and a tea light candle. A pool table stood off to one side next to an ancient jukebox with a handful of rough looking farmer types gathered around, leaning on pool sticks as they chatted and waited for their turn to play.

But what caught John’s eye the most was the signatures. He remembered seeing it once on the telly. Something about certain bars, clubs, restaurants that let famous celebrities sign the wall and/or furniture whenever they visit. Looking at the signatures written and carved around his spot at the bar, however, John couldn’t recognize any of them. Most of them were normal sounding first names (Karin, Jamie, Erica, Sam), some were initials (AD, LL, HP, RW, HG), and still others were circled in carved out hearts (BS + EC, Lucy + Peter 4ever). No famous ones as far as he could tell.

Glancing up, John caught sight of the wall behind the bar. Expecting to see shelves of various alcohols, he was a little surprised to see a massive collage of pictures of every shape and size mashed together in a chaotic mess on the wall. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the collage, just pictures piled amongst pictures until they formed one large mass.

“Sherlock!” a surprised male voice snapped John back to the present where the bartender, a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and a large furry mustache, was staring wide-eyed at Sherlock. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you here again.”

Sherlock nodded once, otherwise ignoring the man’s implied question, “This is my colleague, John Watson.”

The man turned to John, smiling widely and sticking out a meaty hand to shake, “Nice to meet ya! I’m Bobby. Just call me Uncle Bobby. Everyone does.”

John just smiled in return, shaking his hand. There was no way in hell he’d ever call the man “Uncle Bobby” though.

“What can I get you folks tonight?” Bobby said happily, eyeing Sherlock in a way that clearly said he had a lot of questions on his mind but was either waiting for the right time to ask or was too polite to ask at all.

“Food. Anything’s fine. And I’d like a scotch. John?”

“Er,” John hesitated, unsure what he wanted. Hell, normally he had to beg Sherlock to slow down enough to grab a sandwich. He must be really hurting if he was willing to sit in a bar long enough to eat actual food and have a scotch. “Same, I suppose. But a beer instead of a scotch, please. Anything on tap.”

Bobby nodded, moving to the small window leading to the kitchen to place an order of burgers and fries before pouring out their drinks. Again, he eyed Sherlock as he worked.

“Have you been out yet?” he finally asked bluntly, placing the glasses in front of the men.

Sherlock sighed, raising his glass to eye level to study the amber liquid, “No.”

“Ya should,” Bobby paused. “She’d like to see ya. You haven’t been out since…well, I think she’d like the company.”

Sherlock nodded before swallowing the entire glassful in one gulp.

Noticing John’s slightly lost expression, Bobby turned and expertly plucked a photograph from the wall behind him, handing it over to the British man. In it was a younger, but still recognizable Sherlock and a beautiful young woman of roughly the same age with long wavy locks of dark brown (or dark red; John could never make up his mind) hair falling over one shoulder. They were sitting in a corner booth of what was clearly _The Almond Tree_ , the woman laughing as she leaned over Sherlock, a maker poised in her hand as she prepared to write on the wall beside them. Sherlock was smiling broadly at the woman, completely unaware of everything else in the room.

“Caitlyn dragged Sherlock here for the Fourth of July the year before he went off to college,” Bobby explained.

“University,” Sherlock muttered, staring down at the names on the bar.

Bobby rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, they were staying with her grandparents. Her granddad died not long after that, and her gran had to sell most of their land. She told them to come visit again soon. Didn’t like bein’ so alone in that old house. They had made plans to come back the summer before Caitlyn joined him at school.”

But she went missing. The unspoken sentence hung in the air around them, the tension so tangible you could cut it with a knife.

Needing to break the horrid stillness that seemed to settle around them, John cleared his throat, “So, why do people sign their names?”

Sherlock visibly relaxed. They were back in safe territory. For now anyway.

Bobby shrugged, “Tradition. Been like that for years. Can’t really remember why anymore. All the regulars have done it at least once, and visitors do sometimes too. Some families have multiple generations on these walls. Take Caitlyn for instance.” Sherlock’s shoulders tensed again, his had clutching the empty scotch bottle so tightly, John worried he might shatter it. “In this here picture, she’s signing her and Sherlock’s names where her grandparents and parents all signed. They seemed to think it meant luck for their marriage.”

John’s eyebrows shot up as Bobby excused himself to go serve another customer. Lowering his voice so only his neighbor could hear, he asked, “You two were engaged?”

Sherlock shrugged, his shoulders suddenly hunched sadly, “Not officially. I had yet to propose at the time she wrote our names. However when she went missing…”

John nodded, “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock nodded back as their food finally arrived and the sound of exploding fireworks began to rock _The Almond Tree_.


	3. Christmas Cranberries

It was a Holmes family tradition to gather at the country estate every holiday season. From Christmas Eve to New Year's Day, both Holmes brothers were expected to be present and pleasant.

And, apparently, so was John.

Poor John had been coerced by both men to come to the estate this year, though he was proud to say he had been holding his own against them for quite a while. But when Mummy Holmes herself rings you at work, you have no choice but to relent. Oh, she had been polite enough, of course, but not even John could ignore the edge of steel in her tone that broke any argument.

So here he was standing in the grand entrance hall of the Holmes estate, almost feeling like a teenager about to meet someone's parents for the first time. He had to keep wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers as he fidgeted beside a moody Sherlock. Throughout the season the Consulting Detective had been sulky at best, and John doubted that was going to improve over the familial festivities.

Mummy Holmes appeared in all her glory, wearing a burgundy Christmas dress that swished around her claves in exactly the same way Sherlock’s coat moved around his. She was a surprisingly small woman, thin and frail looking though she moved with the ease of someone half her age. Her black hair only had a few strands of gray and her face was nearly wrinkle free, her complexion flawless.

After greeting her sons warmly, the tiny woman turned to John, smiling slightly as her steel grey eyes sized him up, “You must me John.”

“Yes,” he smiled as warmly as he could. “Thank you for inviting me.”

She was waving away his gratitude before it completely left his mouth, “Oh it’s nothing, I’m sure. Sherlock mentioned you didn’t have any plans this year, and I thought this would be the perfect time to finally get to know you.” She smiled again, this time more sincerely, “Now, come with me. Tea’s waiting in the parlor. You can sit by me and regale me with everything my son has done in the past to bother you and we can come up with ways to punish him for it.” As she spoke she threaded her boney arm through John’s and began to lead him away, Sherlock and Mycroft trailing after them.

Sherlock sighed loudly behind them as they enter the next room, “Mother, really.”

“Not now, Sherlock dear. Mummy’s talking.”

He sighed again.

Later that night after supper, Mummy had them all sitting around the parlor. Mycroft was going through old home movies, trying to decide which one would entertain his mother the most. Mummy sat on the settee with John, each sipping from glasses of wine as she told him humorous stories of Sherlock’s childhood. Sherlock, who had been gone for the past few minutes, clambered into the room, balancing a large bowl of popcorn, an equally large bowl of cranberries, a couple needles, and thread. Carefully he placed the items on the ground before folding himself in front of the settee, turned so he could both speak with everyone in the room while still seeing the television. It was the first time John had even seen Sherlock try to be hospitable. He had a feeling it had a lot to do with the woman sitting on his left.

“What’s all this?” John asked, tapping Sherlock’s thigh with his foot to get his attention.

“I’m making garland for the tree.” He glanced up from the corner of his eye. “It’s tradition.”

“It was Caitlyn’s tradition and you usually quit half way through,” Mycroft said bluntly, setting up the DVD player.

Sherlock scowled at his brother as Mummy frowned sadly. They two brothers had spent most of the day bickering over needless things, but this was way below the belt. Anyone with half a heart would know not to mention Caitlyn, especially on a holiday. Whatever was wrong with Mycroft lately, he didn’t need to be taking it out on Sherlock like this.

John cleared his throat, sliding down to sit on the ground with his friend, “Need any help?”

Sherlock merely shrugged, but handed over the spare needle and some thread. They began to string cranberries and popcorn as Mycroft sat back, using the remote to begin the movie. The screen turned blue for a moment before flickering to the grainy pictures old cameras make. Mycroft and Sherlock were little in the first few clips, unwrapping presents and competing for who got the best things. But soon Mycroft started skipping along until coming to a stop on a scene of a younger (eighteen or nineteen) Sherlock playing Christmas music on the violin. Somewhere in the background a woman’s sweet voice sang along to _I’ll Be Home For Christmas_. John knew instantly who it was when Sherlock stiffened beside him. He couldn’t stop the glare he shot Mycroft, even if he was curious to see how Sherlock had acted when he was in love.

The music stopped and Sherlock smiled to someone off screen as a quiet applause sounded from the handful of other people in the room. Conversation began to pick up again. A woman around Sherlock’s age (John recognized Caitlyn by her unique red/brown hair) walked over and wrapped her arms around his neck, an embrace he quickly returned. She wore a red sweater and blue jeans, a wreath of popcorn and cranberries like the ones John was helping Sherlock make circling her head like a crown.

“ _That was great, Sherlock,_ ” her voice was smooth and warm, reminding John of honey. She pulled back to look him in the eye, “ _You really like your present?_ ”

“ _Of course,_ ” Sherlock assured her, kissing her forehead lightly. “ _Best present yet._ ”

She raised an eyebrow, “ _Yet?_ ”

He laughed, a loud carefree sound John had never heard from his friend, not even once. They continued to tease each other on camera, seemingly unaware they were being filmed. Once, John caught a glimpse of a beautiful diamond ring on her left ring finger. This must have been filmed after he proposed to her. The thought of Sherlock engaged was still a little strange for him, but it seemed the detective was whole different man back then.

Eventually, Sherlock snapped. Jumping up, he knocked over the bowl of cranberries, sending the little red berries rolling across the expensive rug and hardwood floor before storming out. They could hear the back door slamming shut as Sherlock went out into the cold. Sighing, Mycroft pushed himself up and followed his brother out.

“Every year,” Mummy sighed. “I’m sorry you had to see that John. I was hoping if we had a guest Mycroft wouldn’t feel the need to torture his brother so this year.”

“It’s alright,” John assured her, getting up to sit by her again. “But why does he do it? Can’t he see how bad Sherlock is feeling?”

“I believe _that_ is why. Mycroft believes Sherlock should at least be _trying_ to get over Caitlyn, and does things like this to express his distaste. However, I don’t think any of us are over Caitlyn’s disappearance. Even Mycroft. She was a part of this family for so long, it’s hard not having her around, even after all this time.”

John nodded, squeezing her hand in comfort, “I should go make sure they haven’t killed each other.”

She chuckled lightly, “Thank you, dear.”

John found them on the back porch. Sherlock sat slumped in a chair, smoking a cigarette as Mycroft loomed over him, his face slightly red from obvious yelling. Sherlock looked awfully pale and shaken.

“Mycroft, I think you should go back inside,” John called, not moving from his spot near the door. He wanted a quick word with the elder Holmes in private.

Mycroft turned on his heel and came to stand beside the smaller man, “Yes, doctor?”

“Everyone grieves at their own pace and in their own ways. You trying to force Sherlock into doing something he’s not ready for could make matters worse, not better. What happened to that man who sat with him with peach tea on March fifteenth?”

“I tried to talk to him then too, but he wouldn’t listen. The tea was the only way to salvage the situation. Really it’s the only way to calm him down ever.”

“Maybe he wouldn’t need it if you didn’t rile him up.” John sighed, reigning in his annoyance, “Look, I’m not saying what’s happening is healthy, but he won’t get past this if you keep bringing it up so negatively. Just let it lie. Maybe he’ll get better with time then.”

Mycroft studied the army man for a long moment, “I hope you’re right.”

After Mycroft returned to the warmth of indoors, John walked out to sit with his flatmate. Sherlock continued to silently smoke, staring out onto the snowy grounds while rolling a cranberry between long fingers.

“I hate Christmas,” he murmured between drags.

Taking a leap of faith, John asked, “Did Caitlyn?”

He was quiet for so long, John began to doubt he’d answer.

“She loved it.”


End file.
